Swear
by ArrangedloveMatch
Summary: England, France and The Dunkirk Evacuation. England must get France, broken and bleeding, off of the beach. T for language.


NOTE: _The **Dunkirk evacuation**, codenamed **Operation Dynamo** by the British, was the evacuation of Allied soldiers from the beaches and harbor of Dunkirk, France, between 27 May and 4 June 1940, when British, French and Belgian troops were cut off by the German army during the Battle of Dunkirk in the Second World War_.- Wikipedia

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Obviously.

I apologize for the French. I only went up to 3rd Year in High School.

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Swear

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"Oh, Christ! Get up, you worthless pile of—France!"

The voice came from far away.

"France, listen—listen to me, you have to get up—you have to move—Francis, _listen_ to me—"

So rough a voice when he gave orders. France almost smiled, but just the thought of such a small movement hurt. Everything hurt…his body, his eyes, every strand of hair, afire in agony. Ripples up his back, soldiers cut down, children slaughtered, women sobbing. His countryside ripped apart, gashes and wounds in the earth, lacerations on his back, bruised and bleeding. He felt everything dying.

He was dying.

He willed his aching ears to shut out the voice. If he were to die, he hoped that his last thoughts would not be overrun by a language as coarse as English. Silence was preferable…and in silence, he knew he would find nothingness. No pain, no feeling at all, no blood, no battles…beautiful blackness. Oh, there he could sleep, there he could let go, there he could hear music.  
Suddenly, there were hands tugging at his arms, under his elbows, pulling, pulling away from sleep, towards the pain, mon dieu, mon dieu, it _hurt_. "Get up, you bloody frog, get _up!_" Arthur's hoarse voice was in his ear now. "I can't carry you, damn it all, you have to walk, and you _can_, just—just get up. Francis, _stand._"

"Such command," France breathed, silent laughter curling his chapped lips. "Oh, Angleterre, I have not heard such command in your tone…in a long time. It…becomes you."

"Don't you give up on me, don't you dare give up on me," England hissed, fingers digging in a little harder. France did not flinch, did not open his eyes. "You are _not_ going to curl up and die here, France, you are going to get up and walk, and you are going to do it _now_." France only let out a small puff of air, a small scoff, and England's face went white. "Don't you _dare_."

France opened his eyes then, blearily, to look up at his rescuer. The blue orbs were distant and vacant and dull. "I dare," he whispered, feelings his lips bleed.

"Bleeding _hell_ you do!" England yelled, seizing the front of France's torn, filthy, bloody uniform and shaking it. "This is your blood, Francis, the blood of your people, and for their sakes, do not lie down and die. You mustn't, do you understand, you just bloody _can't_."

"Pardonne-moi," Francis replied, voice as slack as his gaze. He smiled and said, "You are too stubborn, mon ami," which he punctuated by reaching up to, weakly, tap Arthur's nose. His glossy eyes skimmed over the other man, who looked rather terrible; his eyes wild, his face smeared with mud and blood, and a wound on his leg, hastily bandaged, that pumped out redness alarmingly fast. It was a wonder that he could even walk, the other mused, and told him so.

To which England gave a snarling, "And if I can walk, so can you." He gave another tug on France's arms as his voice broke for the first time. "Francis, please, you have got to move, _now_."

"Non." France shook his head weakly. "It is too late. Save yourself, your soldiers. Leave me here."

"Never," England growled, in such a way, impassioned and ruthless and fervent, that sent a jolt to France's heart, if he had one. Doubtful, he could admit. "I am going to get you out of here, because the France that I know is inside this pathetic bloody body of yours, and he would be the one to tell _me_ to get up and fucking _walk_, wouldn't he?"

France felt his resolve to die shrinking. "But…to abandon—"

"Only for the time being," England cut in. "We'll be back, I promise. I swear. But for now we need to get out of here."

France made an attempt to move, he did, but he had only shifted his weight when he gasped in pain, biting back a scream. "I cannot move," he whispered. "Not like this."

"God in Heaven." England set his jaw, looked France up and down, and said: "Then I'll just have to move for you."

"_What?_ Will you carry me?" France was dumbfounded and nearly laughed.

But England only glared. "You did say that I was stubborn," he hissed, and reached out to gather France into his arms.

France was much taller than England, and heavier. The moment that England lifted and placed weight on his leg, what little color remained in his face drained away, and he gave out one short, guttural scream, then two. But his grip on France only tightened and he half ran, half stumbled down the length of the beach, grunting and gasping and biting through suffering, France's head lolling onto his shoulder. He fell once, tumbling into the waves, water churning rouge with blood, and when he stood again his lip was bitten clean through. He did not feel it, and did not care.

France came to his awareness when England, at last, collapsed onto the boat, gasping and swearing, as other hands lifted them and dragged them aboard, and France opened his hazy eyes to look over the side, pressing his face to the cold steel.

England, still sputtering and swearing, looked over to see France's eyes glued to the land as the boat sailed away. His eyes were glossy no longer and from them flowed tears.

He was moaning, wailing, "Oh, mon pays. Mon citoyens. Oh, mon dieu, j'ai tout perdu. Dieu me soit en aide, j'ai tout perdu."

Without hesitation, England reached out and gathered France into his bloody arms, and soothed him, stroked him, whispered into his hair. "Shh, il est bien, tout ira bien. Ne pleure pas. Nous serons de retour." He held him closer as France wailed, sobbed, for his country, for his people, for himself, and England murmured, "Nous serons de retour. Je jure."

_You are speaking French, you are speaking French, you are speaking so beautifully._ "Arthur," France kept moaning, "Angleterre, Arthur, il est fini."

"Non." England placed a fierce, hard kiss to the crown of France's filthy head, breathing hard through his nose. "Non."


End file.
